


Some Boyfriend

by gaytectives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Hospitalization, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It clicks after a moment and Sherlock starts smiling. “I got myself assaulted and stuck in hospital and you still want to come celebrate Christmas with me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barrelrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barrelrider/gifts).



> a christmas gift for elizabeth [jwlives](http://jwlives.tumblr.com/). merry christmas johnlock trash ♥
> 
> my loving thanks to [aborteddeclarationoflove](http://aborteddeclarationoflove.tumblr.com/) for betaing and editing !

The backsides of Sherlock’s eyes throb painfully and he groans his way into wakefulness. It smells like antiseptic, which burns the inside of his nose. It smells like a hospital, and either his eyes are shut or all the lights are off and the doctors have presumed him dead; considering the faint beeping of a heart monitor to the side, likely the former.

Bracing himself, he peels his eyes open one at a time. The room is just light enough to handle and he lets out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His tongue is fat and dry and useless.

“John?” he croaks. He tilts his head to the side to look, but the only chair in the room is empty. He frowns. _Some boyfriend_ , he thinks. He then smiles faintly at his own mental use of the term _boyfriend_.

Backtrack.

He tips his head the other way and finds the call button by the head of his bed. His arm is in a cast, he realises. It’s three thousand pounds when he lifts it and pressing the button sends a jolt of pain up to his shoulder. A few moments later the door cracks open and he groans at the light that cuts its way into the room.

“Good to see you awake, Mr. Holmes,” the doctor says, thankfully whispering. She’s carrying a paper cup of water for him before he’s even asked. Sherlock decides she’s a saint sent from on high. She gently helps prop him up before putting the cup in his hand. “Drink slowly,” she instructs.

Sherlock nods, then winces. He takes a small sip, sighing in relief. “What happened?” he asks. It sounds like someone shoved sandpaper down his throat.

“You took a bit of a beating,” she says, as though Sherlock hadn’t figured it out on his own. He’d roll his eyes if the mere idea didn’t hurt. The doctor grabs Sherlock’s chart from the foot of the bed. “Your right ankle is sprained, and you have a moderate concussion. You also have two comminuted ulnar fractures, distal and proximal, and a simple radial fracture, all in your left arm. We had to go in and stabilise the ulnar fragments with an intramedullary rod; the procedure was routine and with PT you’re expected to regain nearly all of your regular function.”

 _I was rather hoping for more of the case details, but that’ll do well enough,_ he thinks, the echoing of his inaudible voice like clanging cymbals in his head. “Thank you,” he mumbles, watching as she moves to adjust his uplifted foot.

“Where’s John?” he asks.

The doctor smiles. “Lovely man, your Doctor Watson. Stubborn, though; wouldn’t let us so much as look at him until you’d been all patched up and had your head checked.”

Sherlock sighs and tilts his head back. “You’d think between being my boyfriend, physician, and medical examiner, he’d be too exhausted to fight off people trying to help him.”

She laughs and walks back around his bedside. “Well, we finally got him on his own and he has to have a few scans, but I’m sure he’ll be back no less than a moment after they finish,” she says. Sherlock’s face falls and his thoughts race painfully as she reaches into her pocket for a little torch, holding up her other hand. “Keep your eyes on my finger, alright?”

“Is he okay?” Sherlock asks, completely ignoring her.

“Just a few nicks and grazes. I need to check your eyes, okay?”

“Grazes, as in _bullets_?” Sherlock sputters.

The doctor sighs. “Nothing of the sort,” she promises. “I have to check your pupils, Mr. Holmes, please keep your eyes on my finger.”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock sighs through his nose and stares at her finger while she essentially lights the inside of his head on fire. When she turns off the light he shuts his eyes and rubs his forehead.

“Your pupils are fully responsive,” the doctor says, putting away her torch. “Now, your brother is listed as next of kin and he suggested that you might be opposed to pain medication because of your… record. We have you on a very low dose of morphine right now, but if you’d like more we have plenty of room to give it.”

Sherlock takes a slow breath, then shakes his head slowly. “No, this is fine, for now.”

“Alright. I’ll make sure they send Doctor Watson in when he’s finished,” the doctor says. “If you change your mind about the painkillers, just give us a buzz.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs. He waits until he hears the door to the room open and shut again, then slides slower in his bed with a soft groan.

He must have aggravated the criminal. His wounds are defensive, but not calculated. Unexpected attack. God, if he was taunting the suspect, John will kill him. Getting himself thrown in the hospital, so close to Christmas no less.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. _Christmas_ . Oh, John’s _really_ going to kill him for this. They were supposed to be finished with the case before Christmas Eve - they ended up following the suspect on the 22 nd , and his surgery had to have carried on over midnight. He chews his lip and wonders if there’s any way he can convince the doctors to discharge him by the next morning so he can be back in the flat for Christmas Eve, but he’s under observation for a head injury. There’s no way. He’s thoroughly fucked, and not quite in the way he was _hoping_ to be on Christmas Eve.

He presses his good hand to his forehead and swallows down a sudden wave of nausea. Thinking makes him woozy. Breathing makes him woozy. He really needs to start heeding everyone’s advice about not antagonising murderers.

The door cracks open again and Sherlock moves his hand to cover his eyes, peeking through the space between his fingers. His tense shoulders immediately relax when he realises who it is.

“Hey,” John whispers, shutting the door softly. He’s holding his arm at a funny angle, but squinting to see it more clearly makes Sherlock feel like his head is being split down the middle, so he just waits for John to come closer. John, clearly already aware of Sherlock’s condition, practically tiptoes to the corner of the room, gingerly picks up the little armchair, carries it to Sherlock’s bedside, and soundlessly sets it down. “Glad to see you awake,” he murmurs, lowering himself into the chair.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. “You didn’t bully your way into the gallery to watch my surgery, did you?” he asks. John purses his lips to try and hide a knowing smile, and Sherlock tries not to laugh. “You didn’t let them look at you for two hours?”

John hums quietly. “Hour and a half,” he says.

“They had to do a scan for the fractures,” Sherlock rebuts. “I’ve been in hospital often enough to know that.”

“Well, you were the only emergent case when we came in,” John insists. “They got you in for a CT right away.”

“John - ”

“I just - wanted to make sure you were okay,” John says. He reaches and takes Sherlock’s good hand in his own. Sherlock can’t see John’s other arm, hidden away in his lap, but he assumes it’s in a brace.

Sherlock smiles sadly. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Yes, well,” John says, stroking Sherlock’s hand. “You’re just worried, too.”

“No, not about this,” Sherlock mutters, “about - well. I provoked him, didn’t I?”

John clenches his jaw, but doesn’t pull his hand away, which Sherlock takes as a good sign. “Yes, you did,” he says. “You called him - wait, let me think… a ‘half-wit barely capable of properly killing a man,’ after which he tried to kill you.”

“And failed,” Sherlock points out. “I was - technically… right.” He bites his lip to try and hold back a smile, and he can see John battling himself before he gives up and shakes his head, grinning.

“You are _so_ \- you’re terrible,” John laughs. “He was carrying a tyre lever, you idiot.”

“He was a coward, I didn’t think he would actually _use_ it.”

“You know when you piss people off they use everything they’ve got.”

“Are you going to use everything you’ve got, then?” Sherlock asks. “Since I’ve gotten myself locked up right before Christmas?”

“It’s not _prison_ ,” John huffs, still smiling. “And I’m not upset with you, you daft git. Just glad you’re alright.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand again.

Sherlock squeezes back and lets out a long sigh. “Me too,” he mutters. He tries to have a glance at John’s other hand, but it just hurts his eyes. “Did he sprain you?”

John looks down at his lap. “Yeah. When you dropped I was a bit - I wasn’t as careful as I usually am. Went in at the wrong angle.” He holds up his hand and frowns. “It’ll be fine in a week. It’s not bad.”

“I’ve made a right mess of things,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Yes, you have,” John says. He stands to bend over and gently kiss Sherlock’s temple. “I forgive you, though,” he adds, smiling as he sits back in his chair.

“Mm, thank you,” Sherlock says, smiling.

“You look tired,” John murmurs.

“I am tired,” Sherlock agrees.

“You should sleep.”

“I should sleep.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Not even for a second.”

 

❧ - ☙

  
After many hours of being woken repeatedly by nurses to have a light harnessed from the sun itself shined directly in his eyes, Sherlock is woken for good by a small crash somewhere in the room. He groans and opens his eyes to look around blearily.

“Shit,” John mutters. Sherlock tilts his head to follow the noises and sees John crouching on the other side of the room, carefully and quietly shoving things in a box.

“John?” Sherlock mumbles.

“Sorry, love,” John whispers. He sets the box aside and walks over to Sherlock’s bedside. Sherlock squints at him, then blinks slowly, groggily wondering why there are colourful lights swaying around John’s head. “I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up until I finished, but I cocked that up, a bit.”

Sherlock blinks again and furrows his brow. “Finish?”

John smiles self-consciously and looks over his shoulder. Sherlock gets his wits about him and carefully sits up a tad, focusing his gaze behind John. There’s a string of lights over the window with the blinds drawn, and a little, bare Christmas tree on the floor in the corner of the room.

“Are you… decorating?” Sherlock asks.

“You’re going to be in hospital for at least the next two days,” John explains, “and today you have to meet with a physical therapist. I just thought - since we won’t be going home, and it won’t be a particularly lovely holiday - I could sort of. Set up home, here,” he finishes lamely.

It clicks after a moment and Sherlock starts smiling. “I got myself assaulted and stuck in hospital and you still want to come celebrate Christmas with me?”

John mirrors his expression and laughs softly. “Of course I do,” he says, reaching out to smooth down Sherlock’s hair. “It’s our first Christmas together. Well, not together, but - _together_ . I’m not going to miss out just because you’re stuck in a hospital bed. In fact, I’d probably be here even if I didn’t want to be here, because I have to make sure you _stay_ in the hospital bed.” He moves his hand down and strokes his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek, which blushes bright pink.

“I love you,” Sherlock says, placing his good hand over John’s. John grins and leans down to kiss him.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s lips.

 _Some boyfriend_ , Sherlock thinks, smiling into their kiss.


End file.
